


Home to Bed

by Crowgirl



Series: Welcoming Silences [49]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: 1950s, Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Domestic, Established Relationship, Lightly Beta Read, M/M, Non-Chronological
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 16:57:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7323412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has done absolutely nothing for his birthday the past three years and sees no reason to break the tradition now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home to Bed

‘Oh, come on--’ Sharon pauses to shake the dirt off a clump of weeds and toss the greenery into the basket between them. ‘--you can’t do nothing for your birthday.’

Paul sits back on his heels for a moment, brushing loose damp soil off his hands. ‘I don’t see why not. I have before and it’s gone very well.’

Sharon mock-scowls at him, then turns her attention back to a tough clump of dandelion, hacking at it with the point of her trowel. Paul laughs and turns to eye the rest of the garden plot. With Foyle away so much of the time now, he has expanded the plot to give himself something to do, bringing the back border right up against the wall between their garden and Mrs. Eliot’s next door. In return for Sam purchasing some mysterious item in London for her, Sharon had agreed to help weed out the last strip of unturned ground before Paul spades it over.

‘There!’ She wrenches up the last of the dandelion and drops it triumphantly into the basket. 

‘Well done.’ Paul stabs his trowel into the earth and pushes himself to his feet. His knee pops dangerously and he pauses for a minute with a hand on the sun-warm brick. He takes the opportunity to roll his shoulders, easing out the inevitable cramp from having been bent over so long.

‘You should at least do something to celebrate all this being done,’ Sharon says, popping to her feet and brushing dirt off her trousers. Her dark hair shines in the sunlight and she leaves a streak of dirt over her forehead pushing it back. 

Paul wonders if she will still be so excited over birthdays -- over everything, really -- when she’s his age. He shakes his head and reproves himself silently: forty-five is hardly the first step to the grave. He can just see the expression Foyle would have if he knew Paul had even thought it. Aloud, he says, ‘Yes, have a drink! Wipe your face off.’ He tosses her a rag from the basket near the back steps and nods towards the tap by the back gate. 

‘Mud masks are the new thing, supposed to be wonderful for your skin,’ she says cheerfully, but goes and splashes herself in the face and rinses the worst of the muck off her hands. She hangs the rag over the tap. ‘I’ve got to go -- Dad’s going to be late tonight and I promised to cook dinner.’

‘All right -- thanks for the help.’

‘Before I go--’ Sharon walks back to where he’s standing and hands him two envelopes, both slightly bent from having been in her pocket. 

‘What’s this?’ 

‘Well, one’s from me and Dad. The other Mr. Foyle asked me to give you the last time he was here.’

‘Conspiring against me!’ Paul presses a hand to his heart in mock disbelief and Sharon laughs.

‘Conspiring to make you take an evening off, maybe.’ She turns back at the gate and waves to him. ‘Happy birthday!’

He waves back, smiling.

* * *

The card from Sharon and her father is a standard birthday card, quite small and on paper that almost feels like newsprint, but with a very colorful bird and bunch of flowers on the front and a little verse on the inside. He thinks he recognizes it from the short shelf the grocer’s in the high street has tucked in the corner. It’s very sweet of her to remember and Paul sets the card up on the windowsill above the sink.

The one from Foyle he leaves until he’s finished dinner and washed up and is once more in the back garden, this time sitting on the back steps, watching Tweed investigate the newly turned earth. Lacy, Sharon’s cat and one of Tweed’s daughters, sits by the back gate, peering in at her mother who eventually wanders over to nose at her through the gate. With the sun down, the last glow of light is dying off the grass -- which he really should cut tomorrow -- and he can see a bright star or two starting to show in the sky above. 

Paul thinks perhaps there’s something more than a card in the envelope -- it feels thick and stiff in his hand but there’s only a single piece of heavy cardstock with a photograph of the just-opened Royal Festival Hall taken from the river. There’s nothing written above or below it and, when he turns it over, there’s just ‘happy birthday’ written in Foyle’s neat hand. 

‘All right, then,’ Paul says aloud, squinting at the photograph as if it might have some hidden message. As far as he can see, it’s exactly what it looks like -- he can’t think of any particular reason Foyle might think this building had significance. They’ve never been there, Paul certainly hasn’t been on his own, and as far as he can remember, they haven’t even talked about it. 

He turns the card over in his hands for a moment or two, then shrugs. It’s a nice photograph and it's entirely possible that is all it is: just an attractive card Foyle had seen and liked. If there is some hidden significance in it, Foyle will simply have to make it clear the next time he comes home.

* * *

Paul puts Foyle’s card on the mantelpiece in the sitting room, picks up his book, and goes up to bed early. He meant what he had said to Sharon earlier: he has done absolutely nothing for his birthday the past three years and sees no reason to break the tradition now. His sister would send him something daft in the mail in the next few days -- she always did -- and that would be it. 

He reads for about two hours, listening to the birds quiet down outside. When he finally puts his book aside and turns out the light, the moon is well-risen. He leaves the curtains drawn aside so he can watch the night sky.

* * *

Paul wakes up without knowing for a moment what has awakened him. He finds himself staring at the open window, straight at a bright star he’s sure he knows the name of when he’s more awake, and listening for -- something.

There’s a quiet huff of breath behind him and he tenses for a fraction of a second before Foyle’s hand is on his shoulder, then slipping over his ribs to hold him in a loose embrace. ‘Some policeman you are.’

‘What?’ Paul blinks at the window.

Foyle laughs against the back of his shoulder. ‘You didn’t even wake up until I was in the bed!’

‘Should I have?’ Paul braces his elbow and twists around so he and Foyle are almost nose to nose. ‘I don’t think you’re any kind of threat, are you?’

‘Perhaps only to your sleep.’ Foyle leans in and kisses him, slow and unhurried.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Romeo and Juliet_ and thanks for the entire fic go to [the Lady Kivrin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kivrin) for pointing out that today is Anthony Howell's birthday: best wishes to you, Mr. Howell, and I sincerely hope you never find this story. This was written, revised, and posted in approximately three hours so please forgive it!


End file.
